The Bully’s Blind Spot

Chapter 14

NATHAN

I don't sleep well all week.

Every night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying Monday's lunch conversation over and over. Chloe's voice when she said *he died*. The way her hands shook when she stabbed at her salad. The look on her face when she realized none of us knew.

*He had ALS. He couldn't move, couldn't talk by the end.*

I made jokes about Sophie's dad being MIA. About him abandoning her. About him not caring enough to stick around.

And he was dying. And then he died.

And Sophie was grieving the whole time.

By the time Saturday morning rolls around, I feel like I'm going to be sick.

I sit in my car outside the Riverside Community Center for ten minutes before I can make myself go inside. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white, and I keep running through different scenarios in my head.

Do I tell her I know? Do I apologize again? Do I pretend I don't know and just... what? Act normal? There's no normal here. There's never been normal between us.

I finally force myself out of the car and walk to the entrance.

Mrs. Chen is at the front desk when I walk in, and she gives me a warm smile. "Good morning, Nathan. Sophie's already in the kitchen prepping for today."

"Thanks," I manage, and my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, and with every step, the weight in my chest gets heavier.

When I push through the door, Sophie's standing at the prep table with her back to me, chopping vegetables with the same efficient precision she had last week. She's wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

She looks... normal. Calm. Like she's exactly where she's supposed to be.

And I feel like I'm about to fall apart.

"Morning," I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I intended.

Sophie glances over her shoulder, and for just a second, something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or wariness.

"Morning," she says, turning back to the cutting board. "Mrs. Chen left a list of what we're doing today. It's on the counter."

I walk over and pick up the list, but I'm not really reading it. I'm watching Sophie out of the corner of my eye, trying to figure out what to say.

*I know about your dad. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.*

But the words won't come.

"We're making chicken noodle soup today," Sophie says, still not looking at me. "It's pretty straightforward. I'll show you how to do the prep work."

"Okay," I say.

She sets down her knife and wipes her hands on a towel, then walks over to the sink to wash them. "You can start by washing your hands and putting on an apron. They're in the same place as last week."

I do what she says, moving on autopilot. When I come back to the prep table, Sophie's already laid out everything we need—chicken, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, noodles, broth.

"We'll start with the vegetables," she says, handing me a peeler. "You can peel the carrots. I'll work on the celery and onions."

I take the peeler and pick up a carrot, but my hands feel clumsy and useless.

Sophie starts chopping celery, and the sound of her knife hitting the cutting board fills the silence between us.

I want to say something. Anything. But every time I open my mouth, the words die in my throat.

Because what am I supposed to say? *I'm sorry I made jokes about your dad dying*? *I'm sorry I didn't know he had ALS*? *I'm sorry I made your life hell while you were grieving*?

None of it feels like enough.

"You're quiet today," Sophie says after a few minutes, and there's something careful in her tone. Like she's testing the waters.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess I am."

She glances at me, then back at the celery. "You okay?"

The question catches me off guard. After everything I've done to her, she's asking if *I'm* okay.

"I don't know," I say honestly.

Sophie doesn't respond right away. She just keeps chopping, her movements steady and controlled.

"Last week was hard," she says finally. "For both of us, I think."

"Yeah."

"But we got through it."

I nod, even though I'm not sure I deserve to get through anything. Not after what I know now.

We work in silence for a while. I peel carrots. Sophie chops vegetables. The rhythm is almost soothing, except for the guilt that's eating me alive.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, and my voice sounds too loud in the quiet kitchen.

Sophie pauses, her knife hovering over the cutting board. "Okay."

"Why do you volunteer here?"

She looks at me, and there's something guarded in her expression. "Why do you want to know?"

"I just..." I set down the peeler and turn to face her. "You're good at this. Really good. And you seem like you actually care about being here. I just... I want to understand."

Sophie studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to figure out if I'm being genuine or if this is some kind of trap.

"I started volunteering here two years ago," she says finally. "My dad..." She stops, and something painful flickers across her face. "My dad used to volunteer here before he got sick. He loved it. Said it made him feel like he was doing something that mattered."

My stomach drops.

"When he couldn't come anymore, I started coming instead," Sophie continues, her voice quieter now. "I guess I wanted to keep that connection to him. To feel like I was doing something he would've been proud of."

I can't breathe.

"He passed away three months ago," Sophie says, and her voice is steady but there's a tremor underneath it. "ALS. It's a degenerative disease. He was in a care facility for over a year because we couldn't take care of him at home."

"Sophie—"

"I don't talk about it much," she says, cutting me off. "It's too hard. And most people don't really want to hear about it anyway."

The guilt crashes over me like a wave, so heavy I feel like I'm drowning.

"I'm sorry," I say, and my voice cracks. "I'm so sorry."

Sophie looks at me, and there's something raw in her expression. "For what?"

"For everything." I run a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. "For the things I said about your dad. For making jokes about him being gone. For not knowing. For not caring enough to know."

Sophie's jaw tightens, and she looks away. "You didn't know."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," she says quietly. "It doesn't."

We stand there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," I say finally. "I don't even know if I deserve to ask. But I need you to know that I'm sorry. For all of it."

Sophie doesn't respond right away. She just picks up her knife and goes back to chopping celery, her movements slower now.

"I appreciate the apology," she says after a long moment. "But it doesn't change what happened. It doesn't undo the last four years."

"I know."

"And it doesn't mean we're suddenly friends or that everything's okay now."

"I know," I say again.

Sophie sets down her knife and turns to face me fully. "But if we're going to get through the next thirty-three hours of community service, we need to figure out how to work together. So I'm willing to try if you are."

I nod, even though I don't feel like I deserve her willingness to try.

"Okay," I say. "I'll try."

Sophie picks up her knife again. "Good. Now finish peeling those carrots. We've got a lot of work to do."

I go back to the carrots, but my hands are shaking slightly.

Because Sophie just told me about her dad. About why she volunteers here. About the grief she's been carrying while I made everything worse.

And she's still willing to try.

I don't know what I did to deserve that kind of grace.

But I know I'm going to spend the next thirty-three hours trying to earn it.